Sara and Trent are back, for the date… and the consequences. If you missed their first clash at Mount Panorama, Bathurst, start back here.

We left Sara inviting Trent to pick her up from her hotel…

At seven, a sharp knock on the door brought Sara out of the bathroom, fiddling with earrings.

Half an hour early? A bloody cheek, and where did the hotel get off giving out her room number?

She checked she was decent and hauled open the door. “You’re— Oh.”

Doug’s eyebrows hiked.

As if he’d never seen her in a dress and high heels.

“Err, we’re heading down the pub.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh. Thanks. I’ve got plans.”

He stood back and admired. “So I can see. Anyone we know?”

“Err, yeah. Trent Deacon.”

“No way! When did that happen? I didn’t even know you were talking. I thought all racing drivers were bogan dickheads?”

“They are.” Heat rose in Sara’s neck. “Never turn up a contact.”

“Yeah. Sure. Oh, crap, do you need the car keys?”

“No. I’m good. See you tomorrow. Eight o’clock in the restaurant for breakfast.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Huh, that doesn’t leave much.” 

She shut the door and leaned her forehead on the fire evacuation map pasted to the inside. What was she doing? Who’d turn up tonight? The dickhead showing off in the fast lap, humiliating Greg Allison, or the guy who gave his cap to a little boy and took his nephew to the movies?

She coughed out a laugh.

He’d probably turn up in a Trackways Autosport hoodie and take her for pizza.

Should she change into jeans?

What possessed her to spend an hour ironing a skirt and fiddling at makeup.

Sara walked into the motel reception at half past seven on the dot, and Trent flicked off his phone and jumped up, rattling car keys. “Wow,” he said.

Trent didn’t scrub up too bad himself in cargo pants, a collared shirt and a light, tailored jacket. Phew. Not pizza.

Sara clutched her bag to her stomach.

Would he take her hand and kiss her cheek?

Did she want him to?

Bloody hell. You’re a hard-hitting journo, not a teenager with her prom date. 

He steered her out the hotel with a light touch on the elbow that lingered. Trent had used aftershave. A woodsy musk that made her think of wolves in the forest.

Sara scanned the cars in the visitors’ bays and hesitated.

“Mine’s the Volvo.” He pointed out a mid-sized hybrid SUV.

“Oh. I think I expected a Lamborghini.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Do you know how much those cost?”

“No. That’s a nice car, too. Does it go as fast as the Chevrolet?” She bit her lip against the shudder of memories from the day.

He held up the keys. “You tell me. You’re driving.”

“Oh.”

“If you want.” He opened the driver’s door and ushered Sara in. “Please.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t like driving with the public much.”

“They all want to drag? Too slow?” She adjusted the seat and mirrors and backed out carefully.

He chuckled. “No. Too fast. No skills. Motorists scare the life out of me.”

She patted the steering wheel. “So, you bought a big safe family car.”

“Something like that. Go left and head out on the Sydney Road.”

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Trent said. “I shouldn’t have driven like that.”

Sara over-steered and bumped over the kerb, self conscious in an unfamiliar car with a famous racing driver in the passenger seat. Nothing to do with a lean male presence oozing woodsy fragrances. “Oops. Don’t you always drive that way?”

“Maybe.” He shifted in his seat. “But I frightened you. I didn’t mean… Well, I don’t know what I meant, but it wasn’t fair, with the cameras and all.”

“Don’t apologise. You did me a favour.”

“How? Cured you of fast cars?”

“No. They’ve canned the piece for Australian Breakfast.”

“How’s that a favour?”

“They loved the footage so much they’re cutting it into a ten-minute segment to promote for Sunday Edition. It’s my breakthrough, my first piece on prime time current affairs.”

“Good on ya, Sara. Glad I could help.” Trent laughed. “You can pay for dinner.”

He directed them off the highway onto a back road where a cottage restaurant squeezed between a market garden and a farmer’s paddock.

A couple of dozen tables, about half taken, a few groups of friends. A family with small children. A warm hum of friendly conversation and pleasant kitchen smells. A stout lady with olive-skinned, raven-haired Mediterranean heritage hurried to greet them. “Ah, Trent, mio ragazzo.” She eyed Sara with her head tilted, appraising, nodded and threw her arms wide. “Now I see why my favourite boy comes so late today.”

“This is Sara, Tia,” Trent said.

The owner held a palm to her mouth and whispered to Sara, “He normally comes with his papa.”

She took them to a table in a corner, tracked by goggling eyes. Sara was recognised from the TV occasionally, but this must be what followed Trent everywhere. 

The lady tucked them in and gave them menus.

“Do you like Chianti? Tia and Hugo get it shipped direct from Tuscany.”

“That would be lovely,” Sara said.

When the owner bustled off for a bottle, Sara whispered, “I feel like I’ve been introduced to your parents.”

He snorted. “Tia’d love that. She’s my Bathurst Mum, I guess. Dad used to come here when he raced. I first came when I was about six.”

“Your dad’s important to you.”

“Yeah. Mentor, manager, best pal.” Trent’s teeth clenched for a moment.

Something he wasn’t saying? “Your mum doesn’t come?”

“No. She went to all Dad’s races, but she says she can’t watch me drive.”

Sara wanted to make a quip about how bad his driving must be, but couldn’t. She might not be a mother, but she could imagine watching a son or daughter risk their life. “Not even on telly?”

“Nope. Mums, eh?”

“Tia said you’re late?”

“Yeah, we usually eat about six. Like pensioners. Early nights.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Fine by me.”

Tia showed Sara the label and poured a splash for her to taste, ignoring Trent.

“You’re not drinking?” Sara asked.

“Not in race week. We suffer for our art.”

“Oh.”

Sara sipped, mmm’d. 

Tia filled the glass and left them to choose their meals.

Sara savoured a mouthful of fine Italian wine while she contemplated Trent Deacon, motor racing superstar, over the rim of her glass.

He winced. “That’s a scary look. What are you thinking?”

“Driving here, I felt like a klutz trying to signal and brake. How do you get a race car around those bends so quickly?”

He picked up a fork and bounced it on the tablecloth. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“No. You flipped off the question. Thanks by the way, the producers loved the snark in the interview.”

He pulled at his shirt. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about motor racing?”

“I don’t, but… Come on, Trent. Please. After this, we’ll talk about My Brother Jack.”

“Bugger. I only skimmed it for English at school.” He raised a larrikin smile that belonged to the six-year-old dining with his mum and dad. “I liked the war bits.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Shit.” He studied a spot on the ceiling.

“Are you blushing?” He wasn’t, but he looked like he should be.

He sighed. “We don’t talk about that stuff. It just is.”

“Talk to me about it. It’s something special. It’s part of you.”

“Oh, well, if you put it that way.” He pulled at his collar and searched the room, worried that his racing mates might be gathered around him ready to laugh. “It’s balance.” He held his palms over the table rocking gently side to side. “For me, anyway. Keep the car level. Brake in a straight line. Hit your marks, the braking point, the apex of the corner. Get the power on just right.” The palms shifted, rotating his shoulders. “Too soon you lose the rear, too late.” He shrugged. “Too slow.”

“Okay. That’s the mechanics of it. It’s interesting, but how do you do it better than everyone?” She raised her glass. “Except Greg Allison.”

Trent put his hand to his heart. “Ouch.” He held her gaze for a second, calculating, then his eyes clouded and he slumped into his chair, hands sliding across the table. “I dunno. I really don’t. I ride a bike around the track, every time, even if I’ve raced there a hundred times. I stop by the braking markers and I feel the car around me, where the others are going to hit the anchors.” He glanced up, smiling. “Greg mostly.” His eyelids drooped again. “Until I know I’m going to brake later. I absorb the apex and.” He paused and clenched a fist. “On the day, when it flows, I don’t think. It just happens. It’s… it’s spiritual.” He nodded. “Almost.” Trent’s eyes snapped open. He sat up. “Let the force be with you, Luke. Eh? Stupid.” He blew out a breath. “Christ. I’ve never told anyone that. Crap, isn’t it? What’s wrong?”

What was wrong? Sara couldn’t speak.

Trent Deacon who gave away his hat was real. The arrogant asshole who bullied his rivals was the act. 

She drank more wine.

“I wish you’d said that on camera.”

“No way.”

“I made Sunday Edition with what you gave me today. That would get me a Walkley.” She dreamed of coaxing secrets from the celebrated and powerful, but not this. Trent Deacon had shared something deeply intimate. She wanted it only for herself, to keep.

Tia dropped a handful of cutlery and swore in Italian.

The restaurant was empty, the tables set for the next day.

“Oh, goodness.” Sara snapped out of the private world she’d been in for—she glanced at her watch. “It’s ten-thirty! Oh, Tia, I’m sorry. You want to lock up.”

“S’all right,” she said. “We live in the back. Mio Trent’s having a nice time. You come here any time, Sara. Stay as long as you like.”

Trent picked up his car keys. “You’ve been drinking, Miss Toombs.”  

She was drunk, but not from Chianti. “Oh, Trent. I’ve kept you up late before practice.”

He took her hand. “Thank you.”

They drove back in companionable silence. Talked out.

He parked in the visitors’ bays and walked her to her room.

Trent took both Sara’s hands. “I’m not going to make love to you tonight,” he said.

“I don’t remember inviting you!” But if he’d asked…

His hands slipped around her waist. “You’re far too important for a first date fling, Sara Toombs. I’ve gotta work the next few days—”

“Yes. Quite an important race, I hear.” Sara’s heart hammered her ribs, red-lining the tachometer.

“And I’m going to win, but first I’m going to kiss you.”

Trent’s lips tasted of Tuscan nights, sun-drenched tropical beaches and a lifetime of possibilities. 

Twelve months later

Trent hid out the back of the pit among the tyres. Stuff practice.

The bathroom door slapped shut.

Sara emerged, shoving something into her bag.

The all-important implement, no doubt. Trent’s stomach clenched.

She smoothed her hair, pecked him on the cheek and started for the camera van.

He grabbed her.

“Hey!” Sara pulled free. “I’ve got to be in Orange at ten.”

“What was it? I’m dying here.”

She sank against his chest and whispered, “Bingo! We’re going to have a baby.”

“Yess!”

Two minutes later, a horn blared.

She broke their kiss. “Coming, Doug!” She pecked Trent’s lips one last time. “Let me go. You’ve got practice, Champ.”

Sara turned before she reached the car. “Love you.”

“Love you more.” I’m going to be a daddy!

Better than winning Bathurst.

Almost.

He had a stupid, nerdy grin on his face and didn’t care.

“There you are.” Trent’s Dad burst from the pit waving a clipboard. “We’re all waiting. Greg Allison’s done eight laps, already. Can’t you put her down for five bloody minutes? You’re an effing race driver not a—”

“Not a what, Dad?” Trent crossed his arms. 

Jim Deacon blustered, thumb and finger held together in front of his nose. “Christ, Trent. We’re on the brink. This close. You gotta focus. She’s slowing you down. This bloody bird’s—”

“The mother of my child.” Even with steam venting his dad’s ears, Trent couldn’t stop the corners of his lips twisting up. “The mother of your first grandchild.”

“Shit. What have you done?”

“The usual thing that produces children.” Trent straightened, towering over his Dad. Had he shrunk?

The old man took a step back, half tripping.

He’s your father. He’s got Parkinson’s, you jerk.

But the old man had to understand. “I’ll tell you why I won last year. Why I’m touring car champion again—”

“I know.” Dad waved the clipboard. “The car. Training.”

The brilliance of Jim Deacon, you’re thinking.

“No, Dad. Sara. That’s why I get up in the morning. Why I hit the gym and drive the bloody car. Sara Toombs. She makes me happy. She motivates me. And we’re getting married.” Must mention that to Sara. “Get over it.”

Trent pushed around his dad and met Nev hustling from the garage

“Everything okay?” The team manager asked with a sideways glance at Dad.

“Fine.” 

I’m going to be a daddy. I’m getting married.

Nev frowned. “Look, mate. If Jim’s—”

“He’s my Dad.”

“Sure, but if—”

“He owns ten percent of the team.” Dad would shrivel up and die if we cut him out. “How’s the car?”

“We tweaked the brake bias again. Hopefully…” Nev grimaced.

“She’ll be right. We’ve got this.” Trent slapped Nev’s back. The boys had burned midnight oil since the upgrade at Sandown, trying to fix traction problems, but nothing could get rubber on the road the way they wanted. “I’ll give it a try, eh?”

“That’s the plan.”

As Trent pulled on his gloves and helmet, his dad sidled up, pushing the clipboard under his nose.

“Look, Son. The section times. Allison’s—”

“A full tenth slower last time I looked.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but through The Dipper he’s quicker. If you—”

“I know how to drive the car, Dad. I’ve been doing it a while.”

One lap to warm the tyres. Fiddling with the throttle, trying to throw the back end out. Trent clicked the radio. “Feels good, Nev. Good job, lads.”

What to do about Dad?

A bear with a sore head for twelve solid months. Since Bathurst last time. You’d think the win would be enough. But Dad wanted more. Always more. It was Sara, of course. Dad felt threatened. Dumb. Trent wouldn’t forget what his parents did for him. Ever. He loved them. Both. But he couldn’t have dinner with his dad every night for the rest of his life, and if the boofhead couldn’t accept that Sara came first…

We’re having a baby!

He’d sit Dad down. Have a talk.

Trent groaned inside.

A bloke’s worst nightmare. 

Okay. Switch on. Money time.

The Chevy launched down pit straight. The upgrade did wonders for their straight line speed.

Brakes.

Downshift.

In the zone, darlin’.

Squealing around Hell Corner.

Nice. It’s happening.

Bang on the apex through Griffin’s Bend. Woo hoo.

A shudder as he got the power on.

Bugger. Not totally fixed.

Up through the shadows of The Cutting to the blazing light at the top of the mountain.

I’m going to be a dad!

The patchwork of GM red and Ford blue made Macphillamy Park a dappled, impressionist blur with the throttle down. 

Quicker through The Dipper? I’ll show you, Dad.

Brake a smidge later in the Esses. I know, Dad.

A tad risky with the back end, but that’s why they paid him the big bucks.

Sara slowing me down? Bullcrap.

There. Perfect. 

Smoothly on the gas.

The rear twitched. Flicked, as he instinctively corrected the slide.

In agonising ultra slow motion, Trent’s mind’s eye saw the back left tyre spin off the tarmac, the mis-balanced forces tear the rubber free. Pistons screaming. The mighty, turbo-charged V8 released from resistance as Trent’s beloved race car kissed the wall.

A blizzard of dust, aluminium and perspex needles. Blood in his mouth. The wheel tore from Trent’s fingers. Green Central Tablelands paddocks opened below in sun-drenched glory for a heart-stopping, free flight moment until gravity won. 

Trackways Autosport 14—the reigning Bathurst and Australian Touring Car Champion—slammed nose first into The Dipper safety barriers and flipped end over end. 

Part Three next month…